


Hold Back the Rain (front!strict mashup)

by euphorbic



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Action, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Canon Jewish Character, Discussion of Jewish and Halal Food Conventions, Dom/sub, M/M, Malaysian Food, Mash-up, Motorcycle Racing, Motorcycles, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier: society darling, powerful political activist, well-known professor, and Dominant.<br/>Erik Lehnsherr: anti-social, international motorcycle racer, and defiant submissive.</p><p>Erik is at Sepang in Malaysia for the fourteenth leg of the International World Championship. After doing poorly in qualifying, he's furious to find he has to take another VIP around the track instead of meeting Charles at the KL airport.</p><p> <br/><i>This is a mashup. I've taken Tahariel's <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/24593">Frontseat 'verse</a> (with kind permission/encouragement) and mashed it with my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/340628/chapters/551357">Strict Machine</a> fic.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Back the Rain (front!strict mashup)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tahariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Coax me out my love low](https://archiveofourown.org/works/563180) by [tahariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel). 



> The idea for a mashup was spurred by seeing a few remixes months ago, but isn't my original idea. I first floated the concept of mashing Strict with Taha's Back/Frontseat 'verses months ago. She followed up by requesting the mashup on one of my post card fic giveaways. So, the first hundred or more words of this fic are something I transcribed before I sent her that card.
> 
> Erm, and this is super late. Very merry unBirthday?

“And if the stars burn out there’s only fire to blame  
No time for worry cause we’re on the roam again  
The clouds all scatter and we ride the outside lane  
Not on your own so help me, please hold back the rain”  
Duran Duran, _Hold Back the Rain_  


 

Erik waits astride his S1000RR, gnashing furiously on his mouth guard. He’s impatient, his temper flaring as hot as the S1000’s combustion chambers. His Red Bull emblazoned helmet hides most of his furious expression, but with the dark smoke visor covering the spade on his brow rather than his eyes, sparks all but fly from his eyes.

“Calm down, Lehnsherr,” Angel says from beside him and sticks the straw from his water bottle into the helmet.

Erik bats the straw away angrily and spits out his mouth guard. “Calm down? Charles arrives at the airport in fifteen minutes and I’m waiting to give some pompous bastard a ride.”

“Save it for the track. Be courteous to this politico until he’s on back and can’t see your expression.”

A belligerent snort communicates exactly what Erik thinks of that. He’s now determined to give the man a ride he’ll never forget. Erik has never cared for VIPs riding pillion with him, but since Charles came into his life, that dislike has escalated to full-blown hatred. He wishes he could take his Dominant around the course, but their conflicting schedules, all the competition’s red tape, and Charles’ media attention in particular has thus far made that impossible.

“Here he comes now,” Angel whispers. She grabs Erik’s black mouth guard from where it swings under his helmet and slips it back up the gap in the helmet’s chin and Erik’s neck. He sucks the hard plastic back into his mouth.

“Be ready with aspirin when I get back in,” he garbles around the plastic and clamps down hard.

Angel nods in matching disgust. “If it makes you feel any better, Gatti had to do three yesterday.”

Even though Erik doesn’t like Gatti, it doesn’t make him feel better. When his passenger arrives, he doesn’t even look at the man. With his competition helmet on, he can’t reach out with his power to feel the politician’s gear. There’s no whisper of zipper teeth, wrist snaps, sliders or even the rivets in his boots. Nothing. The man Angel helps clamber up behind him on to the uncomfortable pillion is nothing more than a weighted shadow.

Angel gives the VIP the usual spiel about how to behave himself while riding with Erik. She drones on with the familiarity of a speech given dozens of times before until she gets to the part about how easily they could both die should the passenger fail to follow instructions. At that point she switches to short, punch, and clipped enunciation that leaves no room for misunderstanding how serious she is.

Then arms are circling Erik’s ribs and knees are pressing to his sides: Erik’s rage escalates exponentially. The moment the passenger’s grip feels firm, Erik bobs his head once and gives the quarter turn throttle a few blips. The racket from the competition muffler is ear-shattering and the smell of race fuel exhaust permeates the air. The scent goes straight to the animal part of Erik’s mind.

He snarls and rips the throttle wide open.

The S1000RR launches from the tarmac, front wheel leading in the air despite the electronic wheelie dampening. He barely registers the knees digging into his sides or the death grip that’s slipped and tightened at his waist. He’s too angry with his management and this miserable bastard for getting in the way when he had wanted to meet Charles at KL’s airport. He’s determined to make this VIP lap the fastest non-powered two-up Sepang has ever seen.

Erik is in rare, dangerously reckless, form. Turn three and turn seven, the rear tire slides out and threatens to throw them both to the tarmac. He misses his braking marker by half a second in turn eleven and nearly puts them into the gravel. His manager is probably in a panic and he can tell by the bruising pressure exerted on his sides that his passenger is worried, but Erik bites hard on his mouth piece and buckles down harder in a straight away. He wills with all his being to somehow break the sound barrier that he might get this over quickly enough to at least be out of the showers before Charles arrives.

_You know, I’m not opposed to washing you down myself, if you’re going to be in this much of a lather. Calm your mind, love._

Erik’s eyes open from their determined squint, though his wrist remains steady on the throttle. He shouldn’t be able to hear his Dominant, not with his competition helmet suppressing his mutation and shielding him from telepathy.

 _Unless we’re in close contact_ , says Charles’ voice, which sounds a little strained.

There’s a corresponding press of knees and a squeeze at Erik’s chest, right over his heart. Erik’s anger pulls back and shock rushes forward to fill the gap. _Is that you?_

 _Surprise._ There’s another squeeze of knees at Erik’s hips. _And I happen to be opposed to crashing. So why don’t you take this rare opportunity to show me the real competition racer in there, rather than the spiteful vengeance-seeker._

Erik’s whole racing demeanor changes. The reckless do-or-die attitude that brought him into the International Grand Prix meets the serenity of purpose Charles’ hard-won trust has slowly been infusing into his heart. Though moving at death-defying speed, Erik relaxes; he wants nothing more than to show Charles what he can do.

Loose and calm, Erik proceeds to complete the first lap. He sets no records; he doesn’t even come close. He doesn’t stop, either. Though he was only set to take his passenger one lap, Erik ignores how low he is on fuel and the flag that tells him to come into the pit lane.

He shoots on, determined to display how skilled he really is. In this state, both agitated and relaxed, between ferocious rage and the relaxation of Charles’ presence, Erik flies through the course a second time. He watches for his brake markers, he notes the track temperature and how warm his tires are, he allows the rear tire to slide only at the time of his choosing, and he goes. He flies, stretches forward like a horse in full gallop.

And he shatters the track’s two-up lap time by nine tenths of a second.

 

“Are you sure about this?” Charles asks, though he knows that between Erik’s skills and power there’s nothing to worry about.

Erik grins back and gooses the scooter’s throttle; it rings out tinny and high-pitched as only a two-stroke can. Charles thinks it sounds like a can of angry metal bees. “You just set a lap record with me on a 1000cc bike, but now you’re worried about something with less than ten percent the horse power?”

Charles shakes his head ruefully and indulges his sub by straddling the scooter behind him, a garment bag slung across his back. Between the two of them, and the speed-hump on the back of Erik’s leathers, there’s barely room. Logically he knows they are ungainly on the scooter, but Erik is rarely in so fanciful a mood. Normally his submissive doesn’t give in to displays of childishness. Seeing his delight, Charles opts to promote the moment. Besides, he’s just shown Erik how much he trusts him by nearly losing his breakfast at about 180 MPH on land.

Erik opens the throttle and it is… so different from the roaring wheelie of twenty minutes ago. It is pathetic by comparison. The engine whines and tugs forward miserably against their collective weight. Charles can’t help it; he laughs and clasps his hands together over Erik’s stomach. Erik chuckles with him as the scooter winds up.

Between the pit and the parking lot, the local racing paparazzi are already geared up for photos of Gatti or Sheridan’s shenanigans, but they are momentarily shocked to see Erik Lehnsherr with his Dominant, topped out at 35 MPH on a 50cc scooter, grinning like he just won the World Championship on his S1000.

The camera shutters are delayed for one shocked instant before whirring on automatic fire. Though he hates the cameras, Erik ignores them in favor of the comfort of Charles’ arms around him, knees pressing his sides. He’s still coming down from the buzz of the hot lap with his Dominant and inclined to be benevolent.

There are no reporters around Erik’s trailer, though a swarm surrounds Gatti, Sheridan, and Renganathan’s. With Sepang being his home track, Renganathan has twice the crowd, for once rivaling the size of the mob of unruly Italian reporters harassing the Italian-born Greek, Gatti. Accordingly, there isn’t much stir when Erik pulls up on the scooter. Not even when Charles places a bare hand to the middle of Erik’s back and guides him without protest to the security guard at his trailer’s door.

“Anyone inside?” Erik asks, pushing his sunglasses up over his head like he would his helmet’s visor.

“Summers came by,” the guard replies, “but he left already.”

Erik nods in satisfaction, thinking he has an opportunity for a little privacy with Charles. The thought brings a curl of possessive pleasure from the space in his mind his Dominant usually occupies.

“Oi, Erik! Honeymoon is never over, yes?”

A sneer momentarily crinkles Erik’s nose and lifts his upper lip before he can pack it away off his face. He hates Gatti and not just for his behavior on the track. Off-track he delights in playing mind games with everyone; the most irritating for Erik being the unsubtle interest in Charles.

“It is good to see you, Dr. Xavier! But I’m afraid Erik fights very hard when you are here. I think it must be a special riding technique!”

Erik’s shoulder leads as he turns toward Gatti and ignores the increasing pressure of Charles’ comforting and commanding hand at the delta of muscles just below the small of his back. Erik’s chin jerks up defiantly and his right hand curls into a fist, but before he starts forward to engage with Gatti, Charles steps forward, his hand never releasing pressure. “Mr. Gatti, I know you like Erik, but save chasing him for the track, hm?”

Gatti laughs with genuine mirth, his unshaven cheeks dimpling with mischief and his Italian accent peppering the ends of his words with vowels. “Yes, Charles! I wait for the race track and then your man will chase _me_!”

But when Gatti turns back to the mob of Italian reporters, they are still shooting Erik and Charles. Jaw working in dark rage, Erik pushes past his trailer’s security guard. Charles waits to follow in order to tell the guard that he should not allow any visitors into the trailer for an hour and a half.

The trailer is a rental, there’s certainly no money in carting such bulky items all over the world. It is one of hundreds of temporary places Erik rests and sometimes sleeps from February to the end of November. Having foregone a shower at the track, Charles feels Erik being drawn to the tight shower on the bus, but first, he wants to shed the constricting leathers that make it difficult for him to stand straight.

Along with the desire to shed the protective gear, Charles feels Erik’s intense irritation at Gatti’s remarks. He knows it isn’t that Erik doesn’t like their relationship, more that it is still a new skin to him that, like the leathers, feels constricting even as it shields him.

Charles normally finds Gatti amusing despite his irascible behavior. Gatti has a truly fond affection for Erik that doesn’t interfere with his desire to beat him on the track. He’s exactly the sort that tries to attract the object of his affection with teasing when kindness fails him. Charles has explained this to Erik before, but Erik never accepts it as an excuse.

Charles might like Gatti in a purely platonic manner, but he does not appreciate the disruption of Erik’s easy mood. Now he has to work if he wants to bring Erik back to the rare playfulness he exhibited before. Charles turns his considerable focus on his disgruntled submissive.

“Help me with the leathers?” Charles asks, though it isn’t really a request. It is phrased as one because Erik is more likely to respond to that than an obvious order.

Erik tosses his head in a nod. “It’ll be easier in the bedroom.”

Erik leads the way, and once inside, Charles closes the door behind him and sets the garment bag aside. “Turn around.”

His head cocks to the side in a combination of irritation and curiosity, but Erik complies with the soft command.

“Come here.”

Erik obeys without hesitation, despite his irritation becoming visually stronger. Underneath the niggling of bruised pride comes a certain heat that Charles has come to expect from Erik. His submissive wants to submit, but his pride is such that he needs the fight in order to give.

Up close, Erik looms over Charles. The gossip columns in the motorcycling and society worlds were quick to point out every single one of their dramatic and unusual differences. Erik’s height and athletic physique was especially dramatized and gave rise to all sorts of comments Raven had gleefully recited from various websites.

Charles has found he likes how Erik must bend to kiss him; were their heights reversed, Erik would be baring his throat to him like a fellow Dominant in order to reach his lips. This way, Erik must bow his head in a naturally submissive motion to bring the kiss to him.

Erik doesn’t need the command when Charles tips his face up. The suit already has him stooped somewhat, so it is a simple matter to not fight the leather’s construction and lower his head until Charles receives his mouth.

Charles uses the kiss to set the tone; he makes it demanding, but takes it slow. He reaches up to the back of Erik’s neck and pulls him closer so he can turn the kiss deeper. Erik bends into it, follows Charles’ lead and strokes over his Dominant’s tongue. Charles catches Erik’s tongue and sucks lingeringly and feels his submissive subside into the embrace of dominance.

_Will you be good for me?_

Erik’s balk speaks of pride and humility’s conflict. Erik is still upset about Gatti and what he feels is the Italian-Greek both chasing his bonded and exposing his private life to scrutiny. He doesn’t like the notion that Gatti and the press might be making enthusiastic guesses about what is going on inside the trailer. He likes even less that Gatti flirts with Charles whenever he has a chance.

His reply, when it finally comes, is a jumbled emotional cocktail of anger, desire, humiliation, and defiance. Even so, it is a step forward from their first few months together.

Charles pulls back, parting their mouths slowly so Erik can answer verbally. He licks the saliva from Erik’s lips and then his own. “Will you at least try?”

“Charles,” Erik sighs, “don’t make me say it.”

“You can do it,” Charles soothes, rubbing the back of Erik’s neck. “Tell me if you can be good.”

“Gatti—”

“Is not part of this relationship, Erik, and also not a viable answer to my question.”

Erik’s jaw grows taut, Charles feels the tendons under his hand tense. Erik’s defiance comes to the fore, but has two heads; each set to tear the other apart. “I’ll try. I want to.”

“You want to what?” Charles keeps his voice soft and soothing. He knows what Erik is avoiding, what it is easier to think than to say.

At first Erik balks, but with effort he forces the sounds out of his mouth. “ _Ich will gut sein_.”

“Lovely, Erik, very lovely,” Charles encourages and strokes Erik’s neck firmly. “And now in English.”

“No,” Erik murmurs. “It’s ridiculous.” He shifts weight from his forward foot to the back, his boots scuffing on the floor’s hard surface. It is the point right before Erik digs in his heels or rebels; Charles has seen it countless times before. That Erik hasn’t suddenly bucked and flown into a rage this late in the exercise is progress.

Charles again wants to have strong words with Gatti, but puts his ire aside to soothe his submissive. He strokes Erik’s neck firmly and decides to redirect his attention before inner conflict can lay waste to progress. “Let’s get back to the suit, shall we? I want it off.”

Erik’s eyes, dark with his head bowed under Charles’ hand, flick up to look Charles in the face. There is both relief and raw disappointment there. “Will you be here tomorrow for the race?”

Charles smiles before dipping his head once in a cultured nod. Erik doesn’t return the smile physically, but it is there in the burst of warmth that spreads through his chest as he sees Charles’ assent.

He says, “There’s a trick to these suits, but boots come off first.”

Erik surprises Charles by sinking down to his good knee. He places Charles’ foot on his thigh and with a combination of fingers and his mutant power, unfastens buckles and loosens cords. Once loosened and opened up, it is simple for Charles to step out. As Erik sets the Alpinestars boot aside, Charles places the other foot on Erik’s thigh. He casts a warm net of pride over Erik as he turns back to unfasten the boot. With his head bent, he can’t see Erik’s answering smile, but he feels it.

 _And you weren’t sure you could be good._ Charles runs his fingers through Erik’s short hair. He likes it long enough to grab, but Erik cut it recently to help mitigate the heat at Sepang. _I don’t want you to cut it this short again. There’s not enough to pull._

A sliver of outrage responds to Charles’ thought, but is swallowed a moment later by amusement when Erik realizes Charles is not making an order nor demand. _I could promise not to cut it short in the off season._

_Only two months a year? Erik, really._

_The first race of the year is always Qatar and even though we race at night, it’s still hot._

With the boots off, Erik straightens as much as possible to focus on the leathers. It would be very easy for him, with all his height and long limbs, to push the edges of the suit wide and off Charles’ shoulders. Instead he steps around his Dominant and grasps the right cuff and pauses. He doesn’t tell Charles to twist away from him, but he holds the thought in his mind.

Charles moves as needed, the swivel of his upper body pulling him from the leather with more efficiency than fighting it down his arms. Reading Erik’s knowledge and impulses as they form, the two work in tandem to remove BMW’s blue, black, and silver leathers from Charles’ body. After that, the mesh inner suit is a breeze, and then he’s down to shorts and undershirt.

Quietly, Charles helps Erik remove his racing leathers in turn. They’re a little more difficult, cut to fit Erik’s exact measurements and sewn to be comfortable when he’s riding rather than standing. If not for the mesh inner suit, it would be an impossible chore to remove them. Without resorting to words and breaking the comfortable quiet, Erik offers Charles his experience with the utility of the mesh bodysuit, how it enables him to move within the leathers; keeping him protected without sacrificing mobility during a race.

Unlike Erik, Charles doesn’t stop after Erik’s inner suit has been removed; he strips off Erik’s undershirt as well. Nor does he stop there. To Erik’s surprise, Charles peels down the boxer briefs as well, careful to avoid disturbing the multicolored kinesesthetic taping up and down his right knee.

Like many brash racers, Erik always seems to be recovering from one crash or another. Fortunately for Erik and his career, he’s had far fewer dangerous crashes since submitting to his bond. Unfortunately, all four of his right knee’s tendons have already been injured, the ACL repeatedly, and often act up on and off the track.

Naked but for tape, Erik is a still a stunning specimen of athletic fitness. As such, he isn’t shy about his nudity. His shoulders are held apart, broad and proud. His spine is straight, bordering on defiant. And his generous cock fills with arousal the moment Charles’ sweeps a possessive hand down his torso to his unexpectedly narrow waist.

There’s just one thing wrong with the picture and even as he thinks about it, Erik feels it and raises one hand, palm out. There’s a rustle of metal and then of leather and, for a moment, Erik’s suit looks eerily animate. Then the suit falls motionless and a black strap adorned with a simple titanium ring smacks into his palm.

It’s difficult, some times more than others, but Erik offers the collar to Charles with both hands; holding it in only one hand seems too casual a gesture. Charles takes the strap up and Erik lowers himself back down to his uninjured knee so Charles can get at his neck with ease.

Every kneel, even one-kneed, is a mark of progress; a gesture hard-won and only now a natural movement in Erik’s slowly cultivated submissive repertoire. Charles smiles, proud of the elegant line of Erik’s bowed head and slips the specially treated carbon fiber collar around Erik’s throat. As he buckles the unusual collar, he leans down and bestows a warm kiss to the back of Erik’s head.

He can feel the buzz of pleasure that surfaces from Erik at the warm press of lips against his close-cropped hair. Erik is a tactile person, very present, totally alive within his body, if not entirely self-aware. There is a lot of old damage to be undone, emotional scars from a history more difficult than it had to be, but which can be turned into gold in time. Time they have.

“Stand up.” Charles breathes one last breath over the back of Erik’s neck, warming the skin just before the move up will chill it again.

Erik rises up, unfolding fluidly, like water flowing uphill. One hand is at his throat, two fingers hooked in the titanium ring in his collar while the heel of his hand rests on his sternum.

Charles moans inwardly at the sight. Erik likes to warm the metal with his body heat rather than his power. His eyes are closed; trusting. Charles wants to enfold his submissive body and soul and make the sweetest, most tender love to him. His cock has been subtly interested the entire time, but now it twitches against the soft fabric of his boxers.

“You’re a good boy,” Charles murmurs and reaches a hand up to mold to Erik’s stubborn jaw. “You always make me proud. You even broke a lap record today.”

Though inwardly pleased with his accomplishments and Charles’ recognition, Erik’s eyes open and his jaw grows taut under Charles’ hand. “I didn’t do well in qualifying today. I’m at the back of the grid tomorrow.”

Charles smiles softly up at Erik, keeps his hand on his jaw. “I believe you perform better when the odds are against you. Remember the race at Silverstone? You crashed and broke your ankle in qualifying. The next day you started from the back only to finish on the podium with crutches.”

Erik closes his eyes again and presses against Charles’ hand. “I was third. Second loser when you were watching from the VIP section.”

The crash during qualifying at Silverstone had been so terrifying Charles had given everyone in the VIP section migraines. Erik had gone down in a turn with two other racers and had skid along the tarmac. He never saw Erik’s ankle twist and snap; he’d been totally focused on watching Erik’s head come precariously close to another rider’s wheel. It was infrequent, but fatalities in racing were anything but unheard of and Charles had thought Erik would be the latest.

“Podium finish all the same.” Charles breathes, tamping down his disquiet. He moves his hand down to cover the one Erik has over the titanium ring. Using Erik’s grip, he pulls down on his hand thus pulling Erik down just enough to bestow another kiss, this on his forehead. “Now, let’s get you in the shower.”

Far more calm and pliant than Charles had expected after Gatti’s remarks, Erik slowly releases his collar’s ring and obeys the suggestion without his usual defiance. His feet are silent on the flooring as he passes the bed and opens the narrow bathroom’s door. Charles follows, appreciating the graceful architecture of Erik’s body, the fluidity of his locomotion.

The trailer’s small bathroom is all of a piece; designed to be closed up and washed down from the inside. While Charles might find such an arrangement easily abused and thus easily cluttered, Erik treats it with the same habitual orderliness with which he approaches everything. Even the towels he’s used are folded and hung to dry rather than waiting in a heap on the floor for the trailer maintenance workers.

Back in their shared flat, Erik is a terror when Charles’ less fastidious habits spark his irritation. Erik’s obsessive cleanliness speaks of a need for control that was once denied him. Charles’ relationship with clutter is simply the mark of an overactive mind that deems such things less important than cracking questions of science and policy.

Erik steps into the shower and turns the water’s dial to the heat he prefers before pulling it out and starting the spray. He lets the cold spray hit him, stands still as it warms, and turns his face into it when steam begins to fill the room. There’s a glass door, but he doesn’t pull it closed.

Charles is the one to close the bathroom door, but not before he pulls off his undershirt and boxers and leaves them on the bedroom floor. He closes the shower’s glass door behind him. There’s little room, but Charles knows Erik is aware of his proximity even before their skin touches.

 _I said I’d wash you down, didn’t I?_ he reminds Erik gently, needling him with affectionate teasing.

Erik turns so the water bursts across his trapezius muscles in a constant halo of spray. His expression is guarded but his mind isn’t shrouded in the least. “I don’t need help.”

Charles answers the challenge by raising his face to Erik’s. He pinches Erik’s lower lip between thumb and fore finger and pulls down until Erik gives and bends his neck slowly. Charles releases Erik’s lip, smiles when he sees Erik’s lips remain parted, expectant. He covers Erik’s mouth with his own, slips his tongue within to firmly slide against Erik’s.

The thing about kissing Erik that Charles has experienced with no other is how completely satisfying it can be. Before, kissing was only a promise or a prelude to sex, with Erik it can be the sole objective. Today, however, it is intended only as a warm up lap.

 _Give me the body soap_ , Charles commands and breaks off the kiss with a gentle bite at Erik’s lower lip.

Snorting softly through the spray, Erik turns for the plastic bottle of soap and passes it and a fibrous sponge to Charles. Charles can tell Erik wants to be aloof, defiant, but the hot water is making Charles’ work easy before he even has his hands on him. After the adrenaline from the track has left him, Erik is susceptible to the relaxation of warm spray permeating his muscles.

Ignoring Erik for a moment, Charles pours liquid soap into his palm and hands the bottle back. Erik replaces the bottle on one of the built in shelves. Meanwhile, Charles lathers the soap with brisk strokes of the sponge against his palm.

_Be a love and give me your back._

Erik turns again, uses his mutation to pivot the shower head down to pound on his neck, and leans against the shower wall, bracing himself forearms-first. In short order, Charles transfers the sponge and his palm to Erik’s long back and begins to scrub sweat and the smell of the track away from the scarred canvas of his skin.

He takes his time, working soap into Erik’s skin and teasing out the tension remaining in his muscles. Communicating unconsciously with one another, Erik moves under Charles’ firm strokes, pushing into his fingers and turning with the flow of Charles’ hands over his body.

As Erik relaxes into their silent communion, his arousal slowly fades, to be replaced with a level of weariness that he usually only allows himself in the calm center he finds in Charles’ presence. All the excitement from qualifying, Gatti’s remarks, and the creeping disruption of jetlag are allowed to take their toll in the comfort of Charles’ personal space.

By the time Charles takes the shampoo to Erik’s hair, a token gesture when it’s so short, Erik is boneless and heavy in his exhaustion. Charles thought to treat him to a brisk and soapy hand job, but he lets that plan slide in favor of future pleasures.

“I think I should put you to bed for a bit,” Charles comments. He reaches carefully into Erik’s mind and has him utilize his magnetism to turn the water off. “You’d do well to get what rest you can before the race tomorrow.”

Eyes still closed despite the lack of water to spray into them, Erik nods. “Glad I could take you around the track.”

“That makes two of us.”

Charles pushes the shower door back to fetch a towel and rub Erik dry. At least with such short hair he’s less inclined to drip all over the floor; the same can’t be said for Charles’ longish locks. With a smile, he ushers Erik into the smallish bedroom and reclines, still damp, on the bed with him. He wraps himself around his submissive’s upper body and threads his fingers through the titanium ring at his throat.

Charles waits until he feels Erik dip into deep sleep before he releases his hold on the collar. He doesn’t want to part his skin from Erik’s anymore than he wants to remove himself from his presence. However, he has a more important issue to take care of that does not require his sub. Though he wants to, he does not allow himself to linger in Erik’s physical presence. As a caveat, he keeps Erik’s thoughts close as Charles draws his limbs back to himself and carefully slips from the bed.

Still keeping a great deal of his mental presence curled about Erik’s vaguely dreaming state, Charles opens the Red Bull branded garment bag Erik placed his clothes in back at the track. He dresses swiftly and efficiently and slips his phone in his trouser pocket. He touches his blazer’s chest to check for his passport. He doesn’t need his passport for what he’s doing; checking is simply force of habit when he’s abroad.

He’s just as careful with the bedroom door as he is with everything else. Erik needs the sleep; he never gets enough on race weekends. He sleeps more regularly when testing tyres or BMW’s other lines of motorcycles. Like all the other world class competitors, Erik is forbidden to ride or test, competition helmet or not, anything considered a competition class motorcycle, except at previously appointed times and designated locations.

Of course, there are also the nightmares. Charles has his own scars and has learned from them. Some of them are deep enough that bits of his personality have twisted around those scars, like muscle entwined with scar tissue, but they don’t dictate his life. Erik’s have, but he refuses to think it is permanent when they’ve both made progress. Erik has Emma and Moira’s love and now he has Charles’ and there isn’t anything Charles won’t do for him.

The sun is still shining and there are still a few fans and reporters standing around hoping to talk to riders, get photos or autographs. A few people sporting BMW and Red Bull branded clothes stand against the fence right across from the trailer. Two of them catch his glance and wave. It always tickles him when Erik’s fans recognize him.

“Hello, Dr. Xavier! Is Erik coming out?” They are eager. Some collared, some with bonding bracelets, others with neither. To them, Charles is not unlike Erik’s personal PR rep. There are die-hard fans that question Charles’ effect on Erik’s veracity, but many more that are supportive. Of course, the ones that don’t care either way are probably just as numerous.

Charles’ smile is genuine, the sort of charming and bright expression that ensnares even those that lobby against his interests. “Erik is sleeping right now, but I’ll see if I can’t get him out here to sign autographs in an hour or two.”

“Any word on the knee injury?” One of the reporters loitering on the trailer’s side of the fence asks.

“Nothing new.” Charles turns from the press and to the trailer’s security guard. “My previous instructions hold, but if my bag arrives from the airport, please let me know.”

The guard nods. “Sure thing, Dr. Xavier.”

“Now, could you direct me to BMW’s hospitality suite?”

 

Erik wakes to the smell of something spicy and distinctly Malaysian. He’s comfortable, though, in a way he rarely is on a race weekend. For a moment, he considers trying to sleep a bit longer, but then he recalls why he feels so relaxed. Thoughts of Charles energize him: he pushes down on his hands and lifts himself up. He swings his legs over the bed and pushes off to throw on a tight t-shirt and loose jeans; both of which Charles bought him.

The shirt has a v-neck collar which purposely showcases the wide collar at his throat and the thick gauge titanium ring that hangs from it. Charles had worked in tandem with Erik to shape the ring exactly so it would complement the dip formed by the meeting of his clavicles.

Erik’s stomach is growling loudly by the time he makes it to the front of the trailer to the seating area where Charles has set aside a thick ream of papers and a pair of his reading glasses in favor of a plate of spicy sambal. Opposite his plate is another that holds some kind of almond sliver encrusted dish. Both dishes have bowls of rice beside them and paper-wrapped chopsticks.

“It’s almond chicken,” Charles answers before Erik asks verbally. “The sambal is halal, but I couldn’t remember in which ways kosher and halal rules differ, so I decided I better eat it. The seafood one was right out.”

Erik smiles and sits down. No one in his life has ever thought about the compatibility of Islamic and Jewish food conventions in consideration of him. Not even Angel and she’s his nutritionist as well as his physical trainer.

“Halal and kashrut are compatible in some instances, like pork and the bleeding of animals. Halal forbids alcohol, but beyond that I’m not really sure. Your sambal would probably be fine, but I appreciate the gesture.”

He tears the paper covering the chopsticks and slides the wooden implements out: he prefers the metal ones in Korea, but he has no trouble using wood. Charles, of course, is a master of any form of etiquette that might be expected of him. For a moment he can’t help but imagine the feel of Charles with Korean chopsticks and the way they would move within his fingers or penetrate his mouth.

Erik watches Charles, admires the unexpected dexterity of his shorter hands and squared-off fingers. The writer’s callus on his ring finger is a well-suited buffer for his grip on the chopsticks.

The callus is a point of interest to Erik. He always finds himself surprised at just how much somebody with access to virtually any form of technology prefers to do things in an old-fashioned manner. It is one of many quirks Erik finds peculiar and fascinating about Charles. It is also an opportunity; he plans to buy Charles expensive pens for his birthday or for each of their anniversaries.

As he eats, he spares a few more glances at Charles’ hands, interested in their movements. A little later he allows his gaze to travel up past his wrist to the titanium and carbon fiber cuff that circles Charles’ arm. Absently, he senses its pleasant weight and feel with his mutation. Where iron is like velvety leather to his mind, titanium is more like a silk rope. He likes to touch both. Softly, he presses against the bracelet, like he might with one long finger, and slowly bisects its circumference with invisible fingers.

Charles looks up then and beams with his chopsticks’ points resting on his lower lip. He lifts them to speak. “I promised a few of your fans you’d sign autographs after you ate. It would make them very happy.”

Erik shrugs and looks back down to pick up another piece of chicken. He plucks lightly at Charles’ bracelet which matches the collar at Erik’s throat. “Pictures, too?”

“Don’t you think it’s better to take pictures with people that like you,” Charles asks, “rather than have your picture taken by people that make money off it?”

“If they liked me they would know I hate it.” This is why, he thinks to himself, Charles has been so well-received in his public life while he’s had a bit more trouble being integrated into Charles’. Charles’ image is far more conservative; many of his colleagues thought his engagement to a world-class motorcycle racer was more eccentric than usual.

“That’s not a no,” Charles smiles.

Erik tilts his head to the right in a gesture that is something between a nod and a shrug.

“Excellent.”

Erik starts dinner second, but finishes first; it isn’t that he races in everything but eating quickly is just another bit of his history prior to Emma that slips through. He projects the idea of a cold beer to Charles as he takes his plate to the kitchen.

_I’ll have one a little later. I’d like you to go sign those autographs now._

After lifting the cap from a bottle with his power, Erik responds to Charles’ comment by concentrating as hard as he can on the feel of the bottle on his mouth. He takes a slow drink and when he removes the bottle from his lips, he uses his teeth to scrape any stray liquor from his upper and then lower lip. Thus his mouth is much more sensitive when he finally swipes his tongue across the delicate skin to chase away the last of the flavor.

Though he feels the heat of Charles’ desire burning down the line of the telepathic link Charles maintains when they are in close range, Charles says, “If you behave yourself out there, I will consider that you have been very good and there will be a reward.”

“My definition of behaving myself or yours?” Erik asks, though they both know the answer.

“Mine, Erik,” Charles says with a light voice, but an intensely focused mind. Charles makes it clear that he is speaking of Erik, not of definitions. “Always mine.”

Aroused and rebellious, Erik snorts, slips into a pair of thong-style sandals left by the door, and heads outside with the bottle in hand. He’s not sure how rude he’s being by drinking in public, but considers that as long as he doesn’t venture into public with alcohol, he won’t be disrupting any local sensibilities.

“Evening, Mr. Lehnsherr,” the security guard says as Erik steps into Malaysia’s rampant humidity. “Ms. Salvadore came by.”

Erik nods and thanks the man. Charles had likely given the guard directions that they not be disturbed. He pauses a moment to look at the trailer, then feel along the sheet metal outside, through and back to the bedroom, to the metal fittings of his duffle. Within the duffle is his phone. His fine control at distance isn’t such that he can manipulate the magnetic fields to make a call or type a text, but he can at least place the phone on the bed as a reminder to give Angel a call.

Once the phone is on the bed, he pulls his focus back and turns to face the small collection of people on the other side of the fence. He never really knows what to make of his fans. Some of them are more fans of BMW than of Erik himself, but there are those that have followed him from his explosive debut on the international circuit with KTM, to Yamaha, and now to BMW.

“Lehnsherr!”

“Hey, Erik! Will you sign a photo?”

“Is it true you set a track record today?”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to so many faces smiling at him, asking him for simple things like his autograph, surreptitiously taking his photo on their phones, or photo-bombing him randomly in unexpected places. Last month, somebody even sent Charles a photo of a tattoo: Erik’s trademark spade graphic with his number, _37_ , superimposed over it.

Erik walks toward the group of perhaps nine or ten people. “How long have you been out here in the heat?”

There’s some laughter as photos and Sharpies are thrust over the fence toward him. One of the locals tells him they are used to the heat. Another calls him a liar. The group laughs and he… he smiles slightly. He reaches up for a marker and photo from a girl wearing a bonding bracelet.

“It’ll be easier if I hang on to your pen,” Erik tells her, passing the photo back over the fence. For him it hits just below his chin, but for her the fence is a little awkward as it reaches up over her head.

“Okay, but can I get a picture with you for it?” She grins and waves the photo for the ink to dry.

Erik shrugs. “Sure.” And with a wave of his hand he unlaces one of the wires in the chain link and rolls the two ends back just enough for him to fit through. The small group laughs and claps at the free show. A fan that’s been filming on his phone the whole time looks immensely pleased to have captured the event.

“I’ve got about fifteen minutes,” Erik tells them, though he really has two hours before a Red Bull photo shoot with Summers, his young teammate. Charles tells fans that Erik is shy, which is the nice way of saying he’s antisocial.

He signs pictures, BMW shirts and caps, and a helmet and takes pictures with them. It takes less than five minutes at his normal pace, so he talks to them for the remaining ten while finishing off his beer. The submissive with the helmet asks him what he thinks of his ‘Podium or Die’ reputation.

“Crashing hurts,” he answers, but pauses longer to think about it. It is a reputation he’s earned by pushing his limits too hard and too fast. He’s the type to go down swinging and for him it’s always been about winning, even if it’s meant not giving a teammate the right of way when he should have.

If anything, Erik fights more viciously on the track with his teammates; after all, they have the same bike. One can claim the different manufacturers have greater and lesser machines, but no racer can claim that a teammate’s bike is better than his own.

His reputation for crashing isn’t anything he’s ashamed of, but he knows in time his body won’t be able to handle it. While he used to not care about that, he’d even liked the idea of going out in a blaze of glory, things have changed since Emma and Raven negotiated his bond to Charles.

“I’ll always fight as hard as I can for the podium,” Erik finally resumes. “I’ll never be afraid of crashing, but I’ve had more time lately to think about other strategies. In the long run, crashing too much could shorten my career and I want to race for as long as possible.”

“And you have somebody now,” the man with the phone says wistfully.

“I don’t know what that has to do with it.” Long-held defiance and independence rear up; Erik reaches for the boy’s phone with his power and kills the battery with a pulse of electromagnetism. He doesn’t like talking about his personal life with strangers, let alone allowing them to film a conversation about it. “I’ve never needed anyone to win a race. To quit smoking, maybe, but not to win a race.”

“Do you guys get to see each other much?” Another asks, not picking up on Erik’s recalcitrance. The guy with the phone fidgets and tries to turn on his phone again, probably suspecting Erik tampered with it, but hoping he didn’t.

Erik turns to his empty beer bottle, not liking how the conversation has turned. Charles has explained before that people are always more interested in romance and things that are kept mysterious; their relationship is both those things. Still, Erik doesn’t care how much his tightlipped nature spurs on interest; Charles is his and he doesn’t have any intention of sharing. Not even mundane details.

It doesn’t take long for somebody else to read the room and ask a question about how qualifying went. That, at least, he can appreciate and talk about. When somebody repeats the question about a track record, Erik stiffens a bit then relaxes.

“Yes,” Erik nods, “I set the two-up track record after qualifying. Sometimes we have to take a VIP around the track. I was in a bad mood, so I decided to give the guy a ride he wouldn’t forget.”

“But it ended up being a ride nobody’ll forget,” says a young man with a collar.

“Not like there’s a real two-up competition built up yet,” Erik replies. “That could be interesting, but I don’t think I would do it. I’m not much of a team player.”

“That’s the understatement of a career,” another fan laughs. Good natured laughter follows and, once again, Erik finds himself smiling slightly even if it isn’t completely open.

Ending the impromptu meeting on a pleasant note, Erik throws out the plausible excuse that he’s busy and laces the fence back up. His fans wish him a rowdy farewell as he heads back to the trailer and Charles.

He finds Charles still at the table, a bottle of beer beside him as he works through the thick stack of paperwork he’d set aside during dinner. Without a word, Erik leans past Charles and picks up his empty plate, chopsticks, and napkin. He pauses to drop a firm kiss to the back of Charles’ neck as he writes in the margins of a page.

Charles says nothing, but Erik feels the phantom sensation of a kiss pressed to first one temple and then the other.

He doesn’t have to, but Erik cleans the dishes anyway, folds the cloth napkins and sets them aside. The wooden chopsticks he throws out. With the dishes out of his mind, he slides onto the bench beside Charles with another beer.

“Aside from the iphone battery, you were excellent out there,” Charles comments without looking up. “I was quite impressed.”

Erik ignores the mention of the battery and slips the beer to his lips before answering. “I have a photo shoot in an hour and a half. If you want to reward me for good behavior, you’re going to need to put the marking aside.”

“Actually,” Charles chuckles, “the marking is part of the reward.”

Confused, Erik leans forward and looks at the small text printed on the thick stack of papers. It looks like an orgy of legalese. It takes him a few seconds to realize Charles is marking a contract: Erik’s racing contract. The specific clauses highlighted and annotated are those concerning his obligation to take BMW and international racing body-approved passengers around the track.

“You signed this during Enclosure,” Charles says. “While I would have thought Emma’s legal staff would have found this two-up language and crushed it, I suppose it is your first contract with BMW. I can see why they might have been cautious and allowed it to pass.”

Erik’s eyebrows rise in interest. He takes a lingering drink of his beer and skims Charles’ cramped handwriting. “Even World Champions give promotional rides to VIPs, Charles.”

“Perhaps.” Charles reaches back and uses Erik’s power to guide the ring on his collar to his fingers. He curls two fingers through and tugs Erik closer by physical strength. “But you don’t like doing it. And, to be perfectly honest,” Charles tightens his grip on the ring, “now that I’ve experienced it, I don’t like it, either. I don’t know how I will endure another few months knowing other men and women will be holding you, their knees and thighs pressed to your sides.”

Despite the beer, Erik’s mouth goes dry. Unable to form a verbal rebuttal to Charles’ frank possessiveness, he pulls back on his collar just enough to prompt Charles to pull tighter at the ring. He enjoys the subtle tug-of-war between them, takes pleasure in the resistance, and the barely withheld jealousy seeping around the edges of Charles’ shielding. His cock stirs against the worn denim of his designer jeans.

Physically, Erik is stronger than Charles, but he gives slowly, letting himself be pulled into a kiss that is nothing less than searing. The kiss is fierce, a war of possession that Erik is happy to wage; he’s nothing if not competitive. Their lips part when Charles chooses, a dark gleam in his eyes sends fuel and flame down into Erik’s core. In reaction, his cock grows all the more engorged and is trapped miserably between his left thigh and denim.

“I prefer your knees and thighs,” Erik finally says, setting down his bottle. “If my contract didn’t forbid riding on the street, I’d take you anywhere you want.”

“Which is preposterous, really,” Charles murmurs, brushing his lips against Erik’s. “Without the competition helmet, you’d be in little danger on the streets. More to the point, though, there’s no language forbidding riding in the bedroom.”

“No,” Erik’s voice is low, more breath than vocalization. “No, there isn’t.”

Charles releases his hold on the metal ring. It drops back to Erik’s skin, warm with his heat. “I would like you to go into the bedroom and wait beside the bed for me. You may sit, kneel, or stand but not on the bed. Do nothing that will aggravate your knee.”

Eyes locked on Charles’, Erik’s only reply is a very obvious magnetic assessment of the time on Charles’ self-winding Tag Heuer wrist watch.

“Don’t test me, Erik. I’m aware of your schedule.” Charles picks up his reading glasses and turns back to the contract. “You’ll get to your photo shoot.”

With a belligerent narrowing of his eyes, Erik says nothing, but walks back to the bedroom as directed.

 

Charles looks up to watch Erik go, but is too smart to lift his head and thus the wire-frame glasses, to do so. He fixates on the back of Erik’s jeans and then the stiffness of his back as he disappears into the bedroom.

He slips a palm underneath the table to push down on his growing erection which is an obscene outline against his trousers. The touch of his hand does little good to tamp down the growing fire of his lust. But it isn’t about him, he reminds himself, it is about giving Erik what Erik needs and if he happens to enjoy it as well that’s all to the better.

He resumes his work skimming the contract, but he’s already found everything that pertains to the promotional rides Erik is contractually obligated to submit to. With the help of his colleagues in the legal department back at the university, he’s sure they can ferret out any other situations he may not know of and correct.

Charles finishes off his beer and thinks about their one year anniversary in December and the vacation to Vietnam or Thailand they’ve been considering to celebrate it. They both travel quite a bit, but neither of them normally have occasion to enjoy any of the countries they visit for work. He’s been considering calling the vacation off, just so they can spend time together at home, with no need to get out of bed for a week or two.

It’s a pleasant thought; Erik’s long, lean, powerful body fucked-out in their bed. He floats the idea to Erik and begins to build the image: their dark blue sheets tangled about his legs, skin shining with sweat, chest and sides billowing as he catches his breath, cock wet with come and twitching still from recent orgasm, lips swollen and wet from endless rounds of kissing, bruises left on his thighs and hips from Charles’ demanding mouth, Erik’s hair long enough to be disheveled.

He feels Erik’s groan more than he hears it and again has to push down on his erection which is becoming a demanding force beneath his boxers.

To his surprise, Erik takes the image Charles projects and adds Charles in. Charles sees himself naked beside the bed, calm yet hungry-eyed. Erik imagines Charles taking him by the ring on his collar and gently pulling him to face Charles’ hard prick.

Putting the contract aside again, Charles takes off his glasses, folds them, and leaves them on top of the papers. As Erik spins out the fantasy, now showing Charles’ positioning Erik’s shoulders on the edge of the bed and getting ready to guide his cock to Erik’s lips, the real Charles walks to the bedroom door.

 _That’s enough, love_ , he says, sending the thought couched in warmth and interest. _You’ve been very good today; I think it’s time for that reward._

When he opens the door, Charles finds Erik still dressed; he’s on the floor doing pushups with his phone to one side. The phone’s backlight comes on then goes dark the moment Charles enters. Charles smiles in approval at Erik’s hands-free way of powering down his phone. He pulls his own from his pocket and turns it to face his submissive.

Erik lowers his body to the floor, braces his torso up so he’s facing Charles. His face and shoulders are lit for a moment with Charles’ phone’s backlight as he powers it down the way he did his own.

“Very good, Erik,” Charles says smoothly. “Now sit on the bed _._ ”

Careful of his knee, Erik lifts himself up and sits on the edge of the bed. He looks lazy, yet attentive, but Charles’ telepathy reads the sexual tension underneath the façade. Erik’s hands twitch at the hem of his t-shirt, but then rest tentatively on his long thighs.

Charles nods in approval at the control Erik has exerted over his eagerness. “Go ahead, take it off. Slowly.”

Erik complies. His motions are economical and graceful, but he takes his time crossing his wrists at his belly and gripping the shirt’s hem. Slowly, he brings his forearms up parallel with the floor and then raises them like a bascule bridge over his head. Charles admires the flex and play of rippling muscles as the shirt clears Erik’s chest and pulls up over his head.

Erik feeds on Charles’ admiration. He drops the shirt aside and places his hands back on his thighs. His eyes are dark with anticipation as he holds still, waiting for Charles’ next command. And though Erik’s body, scarred though it may be, is enough to set his mouth to watering, it is the trust that is continuously won, bit by loving bit, which heats Charles’ blood.

“Unfasten your jeans and take out your cock.”

A measured breath leaves Erik’s mouth before he complies. He undoes the buttons with his fingers, but uses the metal in the buttons and rivets to fold each side back. With a little effort he pulls his cock from his pant leg and lays it so the thickening length rests between his denim-clad thighs. Slowly, Erik’s hands once again come to heel on the tops of his thighs, fingertips mere centimeters from his cock.

Charles draws on reserves of control to not wet his lips at the sight. Erik has a beautiful penis. It isn’t the longest cock he’s taken up his ass, but it is the thickest by far and displays a graceful curve as it comes erect. It is the breadth and curve that serves him so well when they come together.

It takes effort and practice to look unaffected despite the clear evidence of his arousal distorting the precise cut of his trousers. But Charles keeps his face schooled despite the flush bringing color high on his cheeks. Careful not to appear eager despite himself, he begins to undo the shell buttons on his shirt.

“Would you prefer to touch yourself or shall I suck you?”

Erik breathes out again, his cock twitches with the exhalation; even without telepathy it’s obvious what he’s doing to the man. “I want to suck your cock, Charles.”

Charles raises an eyebrow and pulls the shirt off; his hands pause on the fastenings of his trousers. “I don’t recall that being one of your choices. Try again.”

Erik’s eyes flick about Charles’ chest and shoulders, and though he never ceases to be perplexed by Erik’s fascination with the scattering of freckles he sees, Charles has learned to enjoy the appreciation all the same.

“Suck me.”

“Is that a request?”

“Yes, I’d like you to suck my cock.”

Charles nods, and begins unfastening the trousers. “Next time, I want a ‘please’ in there.”

Erik nods but doesn’t append his request. He tends to skirt the edge of defiance at the best of times; Erik has never been an easy sub to gentle but Charles wouldn’t want him any other way.

Pushing his trousers down doesn’t give his cock the relief that comes when he removes his boxers. His cock, almost fully erect bounces free as soon as his boxers’ waistband clears his thighs. Erik eyes it with obvious lust that only feeds his own.

“Don’t move,” Charles says. He climbs onto the bed past Erik. He can feel Erik reading his position through the watch that still circles his wrist and the bonding bracelet on the opposite as well as the way the mattress gives under his weight.

Charles places his hands on Erik’s broad shoulders and uses them as an anchor point to adjust his distance behind him. When he’s reached the limit of his arms’ length, he pulls gently. “Lay back.”

Erik hesitates, but he goes, trusting his weight to Charles as his Dominant guides him slowly back onto the bed. “Very good, Erik,” Charles whispers comfortingly as Erik’s spine unrolls against the bed sheets.

Erik’s eyes are closed when his head finally comes to rest between Charles’ knees. Tenderness permeates the haze of Charles’ tightly contained lust at the sight of Erik’s closed eyes and the trust they always represent. He doesn’t really need to see this physical manifestation of trust; no matter how much Erik might want to hide his ease, Charles would have to work not to sense it. But the physicality of the sight, though limited in expression, often has greater impact than thought alone.

He reaches down and gathers Erik’s hands in his, lifts the fingertips to his red lips, and kisses the rough pads. _I’m so pleased with you._

Erik’s lips thin in an easy smile that shows no teeth. Charles can feel Erik’s pleasure in his Dom’s proprietary pride and in that moment he can see a glimpse of Erik’s potential to become a submissive that not only takes no shit from others, but can take aggressive pride in his ability to submit to Charles and Charles alone. It is a humbling glimpse, one that feeds Charles’ pride in Erik tenfold in a heady feedback loop of positive emotion.

Charles takes Erik’s fingers from his mouth and sets them down, placing each hand above Erik’s head on Charles’ hips.

And then he’s lifting up off his heels, leaning up and forward over Erik’s long torso, stretching until he needs to support himself on the bed lest he crash nose-first into Erik’s lean stomach. Using one hand to prop himself up, he uses the other to skim Erik’s abdomen in an unerring straight line right down to the base of his cock. He lifts Erik’s half-hard shaft back from its denim cradle and slips the rosy head into his mouth without preamble.

Beneath him, Erik jerks and gasps loudly at the pleasurably straightforward attack. Another gasp and groan alerts Charles to Erik’s second burst of pleasure; his submissive’s eyes have opened and he’s now taken stock of the logistics of Charles’ position. His balls are above Erik’s face, tempting as low-hanging fruit; in reach but as yet forbidden.

Charles says nothing; he’s more cultured than to speak with his mouth full. And it is very full. His taste buds are awash with the flavor of salty skin, the first beads of precome, and musk. He chases the taste around Erik’s cock, the pointed tip of his tongue running a searching circle about the underside of the crown and then up across the head’s slit.

Erik is already gasping in incoherent pants, his moist breath puffing enticingly against Charles’ balls. He’d like Erik to take them or his cock in his mouth, but he waits. After all, he didn’t give Erik that option when he asked for it.

Now that he’s swallowed down a mouthful of cock-flavored saliva, Charles wants more. He takes more skin, more heat, more cock, into his mouth and sucks lingeringly after the taste of Erik’s skin. He rocks forward, letting blood-warm flesh slide between his lips and over his tongue until his throat is filled and his nose brushes against the soft hair and scrotum protruding from Erik’s button fly.

Then he slides back, retracting his body on the axis of his hips where Erik’s fingers are digging into his flesh. The ground he loses on Erik’s cock increases exponentially as suction and lust bring it to full length.

He’d wondered about Erik’s cock before they’d met; he and Raven had watched his races and delighted perversely in the presence of pillion cameras, which the siblings had fondly dubbed ‘ass cams’. It had been skirting the boundaries of Enclosure, but Erik had donned a black-out visor and done all his interviews off camera out of respect for Charles; that gesture was all it took to release Charles and Raven from any guilt that might have come from ogling Erik’s leather-clad body.

There’d certainly been no disappointment when they’d fucked the first time and there’s been none since. Charles’ only regret is that his throat is less elastic than his rectum.

For a few seconds Charles rocks back and forth, balancing on his knees and left hand as he works Erik’s cock. He spreads his knees a bit at a time, lowering his cock and balls to brush against Erik’s face as he licks, sucks, and mouths Erik’s thick length.

Erik’s cock is good; beautifully challenging and handsome. He sends his satisfaction with it to Erik as he slicks the hot flesh with saliva. The whole thing is a hot, wet mess of spit and precome when he finally pulls off.

Charles releases his hold on Erik’s cock, letting it slap down to point straight up Erik’s long body. He looks down, following the line his dick points up at his submissive’s face. Erik’s face is flushed, his eyes dark with lust, jaw tight with strain, and nostrils flaring with controlled breaths. Placing mental fingers on the pulse of Erik’s mind, he reads Erik’s pleasure, how badly he wants Charles’ mouth back on his throbbing cock. He also finds Erik’s desperation to have his own mouth on Charles’ lovely dick.

“You’ve shown an impressive amount of control,” Charles murmurs. He smiles, knowing what his lips look like from Erik’s heated perspective. Erik wants to fuck the words right out of his mouth, but he holds back. “You can suck my cock now or I can ride you hard.”

Erik’s eyes flick between Charles’ wet lips and his enticing dick, just past the warm plums of his testicles. It is so much easier for Erik to act than to state what he wants; Charles feels him struggle against the words and the false pride that keeps them from his lips.

“I want to hear you say it, Erik. In English.”

 Erik’s teeth grit in defiance that does nothing to diminish the hardness of his cock. “I want to start by sucking your cock and end with you riding mine.” His teeth gnash; he adds, “Please.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle at the edges with pleasure; this is a new level for Erik. He doesn’t comment on his pride in him, knowing it could ruin the moment, but he shifts his hips, lowers his freehand down his body, and grips his cock in order to bring the wet tip to Erik’s lips.

“Very well,” Charles says. “Why don’t you get started then?”

Erik needs no further encouragement; he lifts his head from the bed and immediately sucks Charles’ cockhead into his mouth. The noise of Erik’s suction is obscene and would go straight to Charles’ cock had his cock not already gone straight into Erik’s mouth.

 _Fuck, yes._ Charles never forgets the sheer heat and pornographic wetness of Erik’s mouth, but he isn’t always prepared for it.

For his part, Erik vents the sexual tension Charles has inspired in him by turning to enthusiastic licking. He strokes Charles’ dick with broad passes of his talented tongue, all the while nosing Charles’ balls by sheer consequence of their positioning.

The pleasure is sudden and fierce, lighting up nerve endings with merciless precision, yet Charles is nothing if not controlled. It is a Herculean effort to keep his poise, but he expends it, lowers his mouth and sucks Erik back in. Though his hips jerk against his will and his balls lift with the tightening of his scrotum, Charles enforces a slow ramping back of pace by his own ruthless application of slow sucking and languid vocalizations. He takes his time, pulls off to lick slowly and suck up the excess mixture of saliva and precome that drips down to pool around his hand at the base of Erik’s thick shaft.

Charles enjoys the vibration of Erik’s frustrated moan against his dick; his submissive is clearly conflicted by Charles’ slow attention. Through their bond, he knows what Erik wants, but he has his own mischievous streak and refuses to give Erik exactly that.

The problem with sixty-nine, as far as Charles is concerned, is how subject it is to the individual whims of each participant as they try to give and receive pleasure at the same time. Either of them can go as fast or slow as they want, but that might not be what the opposite partner wants. For a dedicated telepath it’s a problem easily solved.

If he feels like it. He doesn’t.

Sex has as playful an aspect for Charles as any other part of his life which he displays by continuing his slow drive up and down Erik’s frankly huge cock. He lets it bump against the back of his throat gently, once, twice, a third time for luck then pulls back to explore the head again with his tongue.

Erik groans against Charles’ cock once more, this time while he’s sucking on the shaft in a way reminiscent of creating hickeys. Erik breaks the seal he has against the flesh to hiss, “ _Faster_.”

 _Not everything’s a race, dear heart._ And now he really _is_ talking with his mouth full. _We’re not on the track, there’s no competition here. Unless you’re going for a record for holding your breath._

Erik’s frustration wars with the immense pleasure Charles’ cunning mouth is drawing from him.  He wants a fast, hard blowjob to match the one he’s trying to give, but he can’t deny the intensity of the detailed, slow suck he’s receiving. Charles would smile if not for the way his mouth is stretching to accommodate Erik’s girth.

He presses his teeth gently against the shaft and maps the surface of the glans with firm passes of his tongue. He holds that position so he can remove his hand from Erik’s cock and push the denim lapels of Erik’s jeans open a little more. With a larger opening created, he carefully pulls Erik’s balls from the denim and slips his blunt fingers behind them to deftly rub at his perineum.

Erik’s delicious sucking at Charles’ cock pauses in order to accommodate a sharp growl; his hips buck up despite the teeth on his shaft. Charles feels the drag of skin over sharp enamel; a harsh curse immediately follows. Charles’ cock falls away entirely from Erik’s mouth and bobs up into cooling open air.

Charles continues to finger Erik’s perineum, but he takes his teeth off Erik’s shaft and explores the abraded skin with his tongue. If they’ve broken skin, there’s no taste of coppery blood.

_Safe word?_

“No,” Erik growls, voice throaty from having Charles’ cock at the back of it. “Don’t stop.”

Despite Erik’s protestations, Charles pulls off his cock lingeringly, prompting Erik to pound the mattress with one balled fist. He ignores Erik’s temper in favor of pushing the jeans down a bit further, but not far enough to give Erik’s thighs much range of movement.

He has to get off the bed entirely to get to the compact suitcase delivered while Erik slept. Behind him, Erik sits up and grabs his deeply needful cock to further protest the lack of damage, but Charles is busy locating the bottle of lubricant he packed with his toiletries.

“Charles, I’m fine. Come back.” The moment Erik sees Charles turn with the bottle in hand, he snorts and subsides, cock still in hand. “You could have said.”

“You could have asked.” Charles flicks the cap back as he gets back onto the bed. He squirts a generous amount into his left palm, recaps the bottle, and drops it on the floor. “Are you sure you’re fine? Because I intend to ride you hard and without mercy.”

The words cause Erik’s pupils, already wide with lust, to open further, displacing his blue-green irises all the more. “Fuck, I hope you do.”

Charles grins at the comment and lifts a leg to straddle Erik’s thighs. Though he claims there will be no mercy, Charles still warms the viscous lube between his hands before slathering it all over Erik’s straining cock. Then he reaches behind his ass with one hand and under his own balls with the other to distribute more over and all around his puckered sphincter.

For good measure he slips the middle finger of each hand deep inside and pumps them together. It feels good, even better when he angles one finger to hit his prostate. His jaw drops open to swallow air in pleasure and breathe out a wanton moan. “You’re going to feel so good inside me.”

His fingers are thicker than Erik’s, though they lack the length, but it isn’t Erik’s length he needs to prepare for. He pushes his fingers in again this time pulling them apart as he goes. A moment later he feels one of Erik’s elegant fingers slip between his and for several seconds they finger-fuck Charles’ ass together.

The steady stretching, the rub against his prostate, it feels so good Charles would be happy to prolong it, but he can feel Erik’s thwarted lust below him. He can feel the way Erik aches to replace their fingers with his cock. And though he would never phrase it as such, Charles takes pity and removes their fingers.

He looks down and finds Erik looking up. With a sly wink he lowers himself and, using his telepathy to steady Erik’s hand on his cock, lines them up. Charles reaches back to part his muscular ass cheeks and then relies on his thighs’ powerful muscles to impale himself by slow increments on Erik’s cock.

The burn is good, the stretch as heady and mind-boggling as ever. It takes all his self-control to engulf Erik slowly, letting his body adjust to the seemingly endless stretch and burn, the friction of Erik’s warm cock on the taut skin of his asshole. His breath comes fast as he pushes down, grateful as always that he lucked out so spectacularly with a submissive that is every bit as amazing as his cock.

Charles bottoms out just shy of the border of too much. Beneath him Erik’s eyes are shut tight and his fingers digging into Charles’ hips.

“Fuck,” Erik hisses between grit teeth, scrabbling on the edge of control. “Fuck, you’re so hot and tight.”

Charles is not less affected, but replies steadily, perfectly enunciating, “Your cock is the result of the most obscene gene expression seen in a sentient species.”

A strained laugh huffs from Erik, and Charles catches him thinking, _Just like you to remind me at an inappropriate moment that you gave up biology for politics._

It is far too coherent a thought. He clenches his ass and rises up; Erik’s next noise is a choked groan of pure pleasure. Charles follows with his own cry as he pushes back down, angling his hips to best put pressure on his prostate.

It’s all a heady push and pull of friction and pressure; Erik cursing on the upstrokes and Charles driving himself endlessly down on the blunt weapon that is Erik’s cock. As promised, Charles rides him without mercy, calling to mind the many hours of horseback riding he’d been subjected to growing up and combining them with Erik’s passion for racing motorcycles. Charles’ thighs strain as they set a steady rhythm, ass hitting Erik’s groin in a steady staccato, both their labored breathing losing timing as Charles rides Erik’s hips from a canter to gallop.

Charles reaches down and seizes Erik’s wrists which are anchored by the bruising grip his hands are exerting on Charles’ hips.  As the fever pitch heightens, he uses Erik’s hold to keep them hitting together.

Their pace aches to fall apart the closer they get to orgasm. Joined, mind and body, and moving fast and with terrific percussion, it doesn’t take long for ecstasy to catch up to them. Orgasm hits Erik first, but with his mind so intimately tied to his sub’s Charles is thrown into the sharp spikes of debilitating pleasure along with him.

The sensation of hot ejaculate spreading within him turns the last few delirious grinds down on Erik’s cock into a slick ride, then a sloppy one as it seeps from the tight grip Charles’ asshole has on Erik’s cock. A low, choked moan emanates from Erik’s throat even as the hard seize and release of their bodies’ runs their course.

At the end, Charles falls down, his body hitting Erik’s torso and immediately spreading the lines of come he just shot across Erik’s stomach and chest. Charles muses that that they will resemble a pornographic Rorschach test later when they peel apart.

He lays listless on Erik’s body, catching his breath, fingers unconsciously moving up to grip the titanium ring at Erik’s clavicles. Not unlike his fingers through the ring, Erik’s cock remains slowly softening in Charles’ body. Warm and hazy, Charles shares the symmetry with Erik and feels affectionate, and lazy, humor returned at the philosophically obscene thought.

“Glad I got to take you around the track,” Charles finally murmurs, stroking Erik’s titanium ring possessively. He follows up by illustratively clenching his over-sensitive asshole.

Erik swears softly, but still wraps his arms around Charles’ waist and echoes, “That makes two of us.”

 

Erik is at the back of the grid, black plastic gripped in his teeth, the smell of race fuel exhaust filling his helmet. Rain is threatening the horizon, but he and his team have decided to take a chance on not selecting the Bridgestone rain tires. Less than half the teams out on the track have made the same decision; notably Honda (Gatti), Yamaha (Muñoz), and Aprilia (Renganathan). He doesn’t worry about it; if they’ve made the wrong choice he’ll have to make a pit stop and at worst he’ll lose a chance at the podium, but not all the points.

Unless, of course, he achieves one of his ever prolific DNFs. He doesn’t want to take a Did Not Finish today, though, doesn’t want to crash out with Charles in the stands.

“Stop daydreaming,” Angel comments, leaning down under the shade of the sun umbrella she’s sheltering them both with to stick his Red Bull branded water bottle under his chin. Unlike the last time, he spits his mouth guard out to take a long pull. It’s hot enough on the asphalt even without the sun beating down on them. His leathers are already getting soaked.

When his teeth let go of the straw, Angel sets the bottle on the S1000’s white tank and reaches down to grasp the black mouth guard. She brings it back up under the helmet, but at the last instant, just as she’s about to slip it back in his mouth, it fals from her fingers.

Erik gives her a look, convinced she’s teasing him, and reaches for it himself. His leather-clad hand closes around someone else’s fingers. Brow furrowing instantly with anger, Erik lifts his chin high to glare at the interloper.

“Look alive,” Charles says, slipping the plastic up to Erik’s lips.

Erik doesn’t reply, but smiles the fierce grin that has had him compared with a shark the world over. He’s never more alive than when he’s on the race track, unless, he thinks, he’s with Charles. Gradually, he relaxes his smile and let’s Charles push the guard past his lips. He bites down and conspicuously touches his gloved fingertips to the spot on his chest where his collar rests between his chest protector and inner suit.

In return, Charles smiles back tenderly. Then he reaches up to swing Erik’s tinted visor down, leans forward, and places a kiss on the black spade emblazoned there. When he straightens again, his bright blue eyes are every bit as fierce as Erik’s grin was. “The next kiss is for somebody that makes a podium finish. I trust it will be you.”

Erik says nothing, but locks his gaze with Charles’. They aren’t touching, but he’s sure Charles reads the determination in his eyes.

When the grid is cleared and Angel and Charles sitting together in the VIP bleachers, Erik waits patiently for the red lights in front of the grid to go out. Ahead of him and to either side he watches different riders’ nervous ticks, reads the tension in their body language, listens as they blip their throttles in yearning for the kick of speed that fuels their adrenaline addiction.

The second the band of lights douses, wrists snap, feet come up, engines roar: as one the race bikes surge forward. Despite the tight press, Erik opens his throttle hard and trusts the S1000 to keep up with him. Though the BMW and all the motorcycle engines around him are especially deafening coming off the grid, Erik is calm in the center of the storm. He’s ensconced in a personal sphere of unflinching focus; determined that his actions will speak louder than anything else.

When the hole shot opens up, he’s ready for it: he shoots out from the back of the mob of riders out into the open. He flies forth, headed for his next win.

And the track remains dry.


End file.
